Escape from Anchorage
by Moriarty's Dynamic
Summary: Snake Plissken is shanghaied from the Portland Free Commerce Zone of the Oregon Department to participate in Taskforce Wendigo, an artic mission in the heart of wild Anchorage, led by none other than Captain Jack Bauer.
1. Chapter 1

ESCAPE FROM ANCHORAGE  
A Snake Plissken Adventure

Portland Free Commerce Zone, Oregon Department. October 2005

Rain drops fell heavily on the windshield of Snake Plissken s electric blue GTO. Wedged in an alley across the street from a pay office of a local military contractor, the grill of Snake s muscle car pointed directly at the front steps of the office. Craning his neck, Snake could barely maintain visual with his two partners, Malarkey, a buddy from his Black Light days, and Deladier, a down-on-his-luck hood. The two were parked three doors down from the pay office.

On his lap, the snub-nosed AK-150 and a bag of roasted, lightly salted sunflower seeds he had lifted off the corpse of an unfortunately amateur mugger earlier in the morning. Life was pretty damn good.

In a few moments, Malarkey and Deladier would don masks and burst into the pay office. Malarkey would shoot the two security guards and two tellers on duty with his silenced pistol. While Deladier controlled the front area of the office, Malarkey would rondezvous with an inside man in the back counting room, who would have already killed the additional security guards and clerks inside with seven small canisters of CN-20 nerve gas. The two would haul yesterday's delivery of $20 million in unmarked, mixed coin and scrip- meant for the troops stationed north of the Oregon Department border, who liked to blow off steam in the many cash-only brothels, casinos and play palaces of the Portland Free Commerce Zone.

Once his two partners breached the front door of the pay office, Snake would give them till the count of 120, and then pull out of the alley and block the one way traffic on the street with his muscle car. If any USPF blackbellies or rent-a-cops tried anything, they d have to brave Snake's barricade.

The plan was, Malarkey would finish off Deladier in the atrium to the pay office- it was a personal thing, he had said, and Snake was in no position to argue- and then ice the inside man once they dropped the haul in Snake s car- can t ever trust a traitor, said Malarkey. Malarkey and Snake would then peel off to the Zone s port district, split the money, davy jones the car and then go their separate ways.

That was the plan, anyway. A perfect caper.

Minus destroying such a beautiful GTO, of course. Snake caressed the leather of the steering wheel, inhaled the musky odor of fuel oil, mildew and sweat. Felt the vibration s of the Goat s v8 thrum through his nethers. What a waste.

And then there was the issue of Malarkey himself. With $20 million in unrtraceable cash and 10 homicides under his belt, would Malarkey even hesitate before wasting his old Black Light buddy?

Snake mulled over his options while he crunched his seeds. Two minutes to go, and Malarkey and Deladier would be on the move.

It was at that moment that Snake noticed the bearded bicyclist. Tall and reedy, bald-pated, dressed in a baggy cable-knit sweater, and riding a rusty Schwinn with an over-sized weaved basket on the handlebars. Typical Portland freak, Snake thought. Some patchouli chewing, vegetarian, indie-rock loving, anti-Robertson peacenik. He spit a crushed seed at the windshield, watched it stick to the glass, an overlay to the hippie's bearded face.

The bicylist skidded to a halt in the mouth of the alley.

If the hippie didn't move in a few seconds, he'd be road jam under the Goat. Snake cringed at what a hippie bag of bones would do to the Goat's beautiful chrome grill.

It was then that Snake noticed the man's thick-framed glasses. A memory jogged loose from fuzzy remembrances locked deep within his brain. Something.

Snake pondered the bicyclist and his weird glasses for a moment.

And then all hell broke loose.


	2. Chapter 2

Portland Free Commerce Zone  
October 2005

The bicyclist stared at the GTO's windshield, and the cascade of rain water running down its sides. He then turned to quickly check highpoints and firing positions along the street- a balcony two blocks down from the pay office, a roof with a stone balustrade across the street from the office, a overflowing dumpster sitting in a foot of standing water, a garage with the door halfway up- before turning back to Snake's car.

Snake leaned forward, cocking his AK-150, unable to shake the willies the bicyclist gave him. The guy had checked the exact same positions Snake had coming in to the alley three hours earlier.

The bicyclist gently caressed the hamper top to the basket on his bike. A taxi cab drove by, spraying him with water, but the bicyclist never flinched. He cocked his head like a dog, and pushed his glasses back up onto his nose. A tentative push with his middle finger, and then a more firm push with his index finger.

Snake's eye widened in alarm. He'd seen only one man ever push up his glasses like that, while still in special forces training with Black Light at New 29 Palms.

"Sorter", Snanke thought, barely able to catch his breath.

A lone-wolf, wet-work guy, Sorter executed "special assignments" for a sister outfit. Stuff that other commandos and operatives didn't have the stomach for.

The guy had straight parted hair when he and Snake had graduated from their training program, and no beard then. But nobody did that quirky push up the nose with goofy thick-rimmed spectacles except for Sorter. And then only when he was expecting to dole out some serious misery and hurt.

Sorter turned and pushed off with his bike, across the road towards Malarkey's car. Snake spit out all his sunflower seeds and revved up the Goat to a full-throated roar. He kicked it into drive and burned rubber out of the alley.

In the meantime, Sorter had crossed the street on his bike. He removed a double-barrelled, double-magazine machine gun from the basket. At point blank range, Sorter blasted the two men in the front seat.

They never had a chance. Inside a few seconds, Malarkey and Deladier were minced into bone fragments, twitching severed limbs and streaming coils of intestine. The window's of Malarkey's car blew outward. The concrete wall behind the car crumbled in the onslaught of hundreds of armor-piercing rounds.

As Snake pulled out the alley, he fired, one-handed, through his own windows to hit Sorter as he pedalled off from the ruins of Malarkey's car.

Muzzle-flash and red-hot shell casings, the over-powering stench of cordite, filled the car interior as Snake dogged Sorter's zig-zagging form down the street.

So intent was Snake on his target, he failed until the last second to notice the skidding city bus barrelling down on the driver's side of the Goat.

The bus driver had both hands crossed in front of him. The bus was close enough that Snake could make out earphones plugged into the driver's ears and the dirty Portland Trailblazer's hat perched on his head.

"Man," Snake thought as the bus loomed over the Goat, "I'd like to sock that bus driver right in the nuts."

And then the two vehicles t-boned.

Darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Portland Free Commerce Zone Echelon Tertiary Medical Center November 2005

Snake awoke with a start.

He lifted his head from a warm cocoon of medical gel and opened his eye. Klieg-hot light burst into his brain like a bullet. Pain gouged his skull, poked deep into his gray matter. He dropped his head back into the goop.

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

Snake turned his ear to the husky voice off to his side. The movement made Snake's stomach swim. He turned his head to puke into the gel surrounding his head. Nothing but bile and water, but it really reeked, and made Snake dry heave. He tried to lift his arms, but they were trapped under the surface of the gel. Each time he moved, the gel recongealed around his new position.

"That's MediGel. Field-grade; good stuff for severe trauma, war wounds, that kind of thing," came the voice again. "And much needed. You got your ass handed to you by that bus."

"Nuts... Bus Driver..." rasped Snake.

"Is he delerious?" A female voice this time, near the male voice. Snake struggled to resolve the images before him. Two fuzzy, lumpy shapes, one taller than the other.

"Where... Where am I?" said Snake. The taller of the figures, the male, came forward, put a disposable plastic cup of pisswarm water to Snake's lips.

"Slow, slow." Snake chugged the water. "You're at Echelon. It's a tertiary care facility run by the company you tried to rob." Snake choked and spit up the water, coughing.

"You thought maybe we wouldn't know about that little stunt you and your jerk-off friends cooked up?"

"So, what, you're the welcome committe then?"

The figure through the rest of the water in Snake's face, stinging his eye and getting some of the water up his nose. Snake sputtered.

"I'm your wake up call, asshole. There's work to be done. And time, it's a'wasting." The man snapped his fingers. "Drain his bed. Now."

There was a click, and a pleasant hum that sent pleasant tingles through Snake's body. The gel seeped from between Snake's naked limbs, into an unseen drain. The silky feel of the departing gel as it glided over his naked body and exposed him to the air-conditioned room gave Snake an immense woody.

The female gasped. Dropped a metal tray with equipment on it. Snake sneered at the two fuzzy, images slowly coalescing before him.

One of the figures, the male, was about Snake's height. Blondish/gray, spikey hair, heavy jowls and sad, dead eyes. He had a military bearing about him, and something else too. An electrically charged air of repressed violence, hatred.

"Enough of this horseshit." The man reached down and clasped Snake's arm. Snake noticed the tattoo of a snake, not a cobra but something familiar to him, running up the man's forearm. The man hauled Snake out of the bed and onto his feet in one smooth motion. The female came by, draping a hospital gown over Snake's shoulders, tying the back flaps of the gown.

Probably trying to feel him up, Snake thought. He grabbed the female's wrist and brought it down to his crotch.

"Here's for the scrap book, lady." The female yelped and backed away.

"You've been kept in an artificially induced comatose state for a month now," said the male. He readjusted Snake's robe, smoothing the sides and fixing its collar. "Broken fibula, broken tibia, broken pelvis, broken clavicle, cracked L5 and L8 vertebrae, ruptured spleen, massive abdominal hematomas. And a cluster fuck of a brain injury. Six surgeries and a full three weeks in the tank. Lucky for you we were here to fix you up."

"My head's pounding still. And I'm sore as fuck."

"Don't push it. You'll find that you don't even have long term limb atrophy from our procedures. You can walk as if you're just getting up from a nap." The man put his arm around Snake's shoulder and began walking to the door with him. Snake felt too weak to shrug the man's arm off his shoulder, let alone put him face-first through plate glass 50 stories up, as he'd like to.

"Well, thanks, I guess. Now, just get me my clothes and I won't have to stay long enough to kick the living shit out of you. I've got a date with a certain bus driver that can't wait."

"Not so fast. You owe us for what we did for you. For what the company did for you. Don't you think?"

"I owe you dick. So bend over, or get out of my way."

"Plus, there's the little matter of six dead company employees, two injured cops, attempted robbery of a company financial office and wanton and reckless destruction of property. Or did you think we forgot that? Any one of those is a New York-worthy offense. Combined, you'll be lucky to make it to Liberty Island before you get tossed out of the helicopter by the USPF."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

The man spun Snake around, facing him, nose to nose.

"Yes you do. And one of those dead guards your asshole friend gassed back at the pay office? He happened to be my daughter Kim's fiancee, and a pretty damn good guy at that. So why don't we dispense with the banter."

The man kneed Snake in the balls. Snake slid to the floor.

"Yes, why don't we?" whispered Snake, breathlessly.

The man grabbed Snake by his hair, and kneed him in the face with enough force to yank a bloody clump of hair from Snake's head. Gasping, Snake fell flat on his back.

"You've got a big debt to pay, friend, and not a lot of time to pay it. Welcome to Frostzone, Plissken. The name's Bauer. Captain Jack Bauer. We'll talk more soon."

And with that, for good measure, Bauer stomped on Snake's face.

Darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

The next conscious sensation Snake Plissken had was of shivers, as seagulls sang their nails down a chalkboard song. The sound sent wave after wave of agony down his fucked nervous system.

No, that wasn't it. Maybe it was the torrent of ice cold sea water being dumped on his junk. Snake checked his balls. Still all there, like two cue balls under a kielbasa, and about as much feeling to them.

Even that wasn't it. Snake opened his eyes, to see the seagulls dancing about his head. To see another bucket of icy sea water being tipped over his face. To see thick gray cloud banks above and beyond the bucket of ice water.

As if it were hydrochloric acid, freezing Water hit Snake smack in the face, in his open eyes and down his throat. He rolled onto his stomach, and dragged himself up.

"Glad to see you're up, asshole. I'm Tony Almei-" Snake righted himself, braced one foot against a cleat welded to the deck, and kicked the speaker in the gut. Hard. Man and bucket went over the side. Snake staggered over to a guide rope, and leaned over the edge to see the man, in what appeared to be full bodyarmor and commo gear, waving his arms and sinking under the weight of a 15 foot, frothing whitecap.

Giant, black, dorsal-finned backs of killer waves reared up and dove down after what was no doubt a tender, tasty morsel.

And then it hit Snake. He stood, stark naked, on the deck of a ship, plowing through artic waters in the middle of a snowstorm. No wonder his junk was so numb. Snake hefted it in his hand and shot a hot stream of piss where he imagined the Frostzone stooge was still sinking, and looking up at huge carnivorous shapes blotting out the watery sunlight.

He shook out a few remaining drops and turned back to the main deck, where crewmembers in Echelon-certified polarwear, mouths agape, backed away in horrified silence from the naked man.

Snake lurched towards the cabin in time with the ship sliding down a wave trough, and yanked open the cabin door. The warmth of the ship's interior felt like needles, knitting needles, spiking into his skin. He collapsed onto the floor.

A woman came over to him and put a blanket on top of him.

"Where…where am I?" he mumbled. Saltwater spewed from his mouth.

"You're on Echelon-certified Vessel 'Arctic Warrior'," said the woman, who then put a knit watch cap on Snake's head. "We're contracted with Frostzone, presently sailing a course due north through the Bering Strait. Head on for Anchorage. I'm Captain Epps." She rubbed his back and his arms to help him get feeling back into them. "Where's Commander Almeida? Did he come back in? Is he still out on deck?"

"Goddamnit!" came the cry from the corridor. Snake smiled.

"I guess Bauer found Almeida." Snake stood up and braced himself against the door. Jack Bauer barreled through the far hatchway.

"Back away from the prisoner, Maureen. Do it. Right now!" Captain Epps flinched and moved away from Snake into a corner. "You are a fucking dead man. Fucking dead!" he cried, and pushed Snake into the cabin wall. He punched Snake in the gut, grabbed fistfuls of his long hair and dragged him back out onto the deck. He positioned Snake over the railings. "See that fucking water, Plissken? It's so cold, you'd be in a coma, two minutes flat. Dead in 3. Your only saving grace? Those goddamned killer whales you see. They patrol, and patrol, and patrol around Anchorage. Nothing less than 100 tons gets passed them, except down their gullet and out their assholes. Nothing. Echelon-certified, motherfucker." Bauer dropped Plissken back onto the icy, heaving deck.

"Now, get dressed or I put a bullet in your knee and test your swimming against those whales. And debrief in two minutes. If you're even one second late, I put a bullet up your asshole instead, and I could give a shit whether you swim for it or not."

Bauer stalked off. Plissken blew away a puddle of seawater sloshing around his nose and lips, picked himself up onto his elbow. A pair of soft, fuzzy boots took the place of Bauer's black jack boots.

"You've done it now," said Captain Epps. She pulled him up by his armpits. Her mouth close to his ear, she said "Good for you, standing up for yourself. But be careful… Frostzone rules all, from the PFCZ on up to Gusherville and Salmon City." She walked with him back in to the cabin.

Louder, she said: "Now, lets get some clothes on you, Echelon-certified, and we'll get you some nice hot chocolate before your meeting."

For once, Plissken had nothing smartass to say.


End file.
